He scarcely knew what he thought of the whole matter.  War, of course, was terrible.  And such a war as this would have been too terrible for the imagination to visualise; but to the priest’s mind there were other things even worse.  What of universal peace—­peace, that is to say, established by others than Christ’s method?  Or was God behind even this?  The questions were hopeless.

Felsenburgh—­it was he then who had done this thing—­this thing undoubtedly greater than any secular event hitherto known in civilisation.  What manner of man was he?  What was his character, his motive, his method?  How would he use his success?...  So the points flew before him like a stream of sparks, each, it might be, harmless; each, equally, capable of setting a world on fire.  Meanwhile here was an old woman who desired to be reconciled with God before she died....

* * * * *

He touched the button again, three or four times, and waited.  Then a light sprang out overhead, and he knew that he was heard.

“I was sent for,” he exclaimed to the bewildered maid.  “I should have been here at twenty-two:  I was prevented by the rush.”

She babbled out a question at him.

“Yes, it is true, I believe,” he said.  “It is peace, not war.  Kindly take me upstairs.”

He went through the hall with a curious sense of guilt.  This was Brand’s house then—­that vivid orator, so bitterly eloquent against God; and here was he, a priest, slinking in under cover of night.  Well, well, it was not of his appointment.

At the door of an upstairs room the maid turned to him.

“A doctor, sir?” she said.

“That is my affair,” said Percy briefly, and opened the door.

* * * * *

A little wailing cry broke from the corner, before he had time to close the door again.

“Oh! thank God!  I thought He had forgotten me.  You are a priest, father?”

“I am a priest.  Do you not remember seeing me in the Cathedral?”

“Yes, yes, sir; I saw you praying, father.  Oh! thank God, thank God!”

Percy stood looking down at her a moment, seeing her flushed old face in the nightcap, her bright sunken eyes and her tremulous hands.  Yes; this was genuine enough.

“Now, my child,” he said, “tell me.”

“My confession, father.”

Percy drew out the purple thread, slipped it over his shoulders, and sat down by the bed.

* * * * *

But she would not let him go for a while after that.

“Tell me, father.  When will you bring me Holy Communion?”

He hesitated.

“I understand that Mr. Brand and his wife know nothing of all this?”

“No, father.”

“Tell me, are you very ill?”

“I don’t know, father.  They will not tell me.  I thought I was gone last night.”

“When would you wish me to bring you Holy Communion?  I will do as you say.”